


aubade

by ADreamingSongbird



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Vicchan Lives, also features phichit and ciao ciao and sara and chris and several others in the background, tfw both members of the couple make great honeypots????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 10:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16533083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamingSongbird/pseuds/ADreamingSongbird
Summary: One month ago, Yuuri was staring him down at gunpoint. Now, he's defected to Celestino's agency, promising secrets and more in exchange for protection. He doesn't know what to make of Viktor Nikiforov, not anymore.(He'll make a husband of him, in the end.)





	aubade

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: depictions of violence (not super graphic but tagged to be safe) and blood, a sleazy OC (so, unwanted sexual advances) (no worries they get rebuffed yuuri can beat a guy up real good), and some mentions of torture.

_20180420213852_ _  
_ _[Present day.]_

“Yuuri, you know, your ass looks absolutely divine in that dress. I’m so glad you let me pick it out for you, darling,” Viktor’s voice croons, silky-smooth and sweet in his earpiece. Yuuri adjusts it under the guise of pushing his glasses up his nose and sighs, scanning the party spread out on the floor below.

“We’re here on business, Vitya,” he reminds his fiancé.

“I know.” Viktor sounds absolutely unrepentant. “The target is down the stairs, to the right, in the disgusting grey getup with that utter disgrace of a tie—it’s this pale lemon monstrosity, dear; even someone with your taste in ties can’t miss it. He’s talking to Chris right now, so don’t approach, but I’ll let you know when you should go after him.”

Yuuri hums a quiet affirmative and takes an idle sip of champagne, twirling the glass between his fingers. It’s a very opulent party, the kind that reeks of obnoxious wealth, and the people mingling on the dance floor or near the banquet tables are dressed to the nines. He’s dressed to match—when they were given this mission, Viktor was positively _giddy_ with excitement, purely for the wardrobe if Yuuri’s guess is anything to go by—and so is Chris, his partner in the field for tonight. Viktor is waiting for them in an innocent, obscure van nearby, full of screens displaying the feeds from a hundred security cameras throughout the building.

Their target is interested in smuggling information to the highest bidder—information that could kill civilians, in the wrong hands. They’re here to sell him the _wrong_ information, to trace his chain of contacts to its ends by seeing where that information crops up later.

And so they have to mingle at a party full of potential “contacts”.

“Am I going to get to watch you dance?” Viktor asks, rather gleeful. “You know I love watching you dance. You don’t have to answer out loud—just nod, I have cameras on you.”

Yuuri sighs again and nods slightly, lowering his voice as if muttering to himself. “You’ll really enjoy me having to let Mr. Lemon Monstrosity put his hands on me?”

Viktor is silent for a long moment. Yuuri takes that as a clear _no_ and smirks to himself; he won this round _._ But he’s still stuck in the ballroom, and whether or not it bugs Viktor to see him dance with other men, he’s the one who actually has to do it.  

If he wasn’t a professional spy with a job to do, Yuuri would say he needs way, _way_ more champagne.

* * *

 _20140901152637_ _  
_ _[Three years ago.]_

The break room at Celestino’s headquarters is pretty cozy—Yuuri, Phichit, and Sara have seen to it that it has several gaming stations, a huge pile of blankets and beanbag chairs, and a proper espresso station, respectively—and it’s not uncommon to find operatives lounging around between missions, enjoying their downtime. Right now, it’s the middle of the night, and Yuuri’s the only one around, working on his second full completionist run of the Metroid Prime trilogy. After he clears Torvus Bog, he’s going to call it a night and go to sleep, but right now, he has some final scouting to do.

As the next area loads, he leans back, tugging the blanket over his lap up again. Maybe sitting around playing games in a lounge at half past midnight in mismatched pajamas isn’t the usual image people have of secret agents and top spies, but every spy has to have a way to unwind, right?

The screen loads, the bog’s subterranean theme washes over him from the surround-sound speakers, and—

The door rattles.

Yuuri pauses the game, frowning. Who’s here this late? Phichit comes in early in the mornings, so it’s not him, Sara said she would be out of town for the next week, Chris is still out with a horrible head cold from last week’s debacle, and…

He puts the controller down and stands cautiously, letting the blanket fall down to the rug. Cool air greets his legs as he carefully stalks to the door as it rattles again, as if the person on the other side got the combination lock’s code wrong, and his wariness grows.

And then the door opens and _Viktor fucking Nikiforov_ stands there, silhouetted in the hallway’s yellowy light.

Yuuri’s body moves before he even has time to think. He launches himself forward with a high kick, horribly aware that he’s unarmed but determined nonetheless. Nikiforov will _not_ get access to Celestino’s office, not while Yuuri is in here and alive.

Nikiforov blanches and ducks, and to Yuuri’s rage, he catches his leg just as it swings at his head.

Only then does Yuuri notice that Celestino is behind him.

“Yuuri,” he says, nodding once. He looks exhausted but firm. “Stand down. Nikiforov is with me.”

Nikiforov gives Yuuri’s ankle a light caress— _weird, okay_ —and smiles wanly. “I like your socks, Agent Katsuki. They’re very soft.”

“Uh.” Yuuri tugs his foot away, very, very, _very_ out of his depth. Nikiforov is wearing a suit—granted, it’s rumpled and one of the legs is torn and maybe bloodied, but it’s still a suit, while Yuuri is in a big blue sweater, pink booty shorts that say _FABULOUS_ in white glitter across his ass, and purple striped knee socks. He suddenly has absolutely _no_ idea what’s going on. “Thanks?”

Celestino sighs, tired, and waves his hand in a shooing motion. “Inside, please. Yuuri…” He wavers, then sighs again. “Hell, everyone’s going to know soon enough. You might as well join us.”

Yuuri steps back, lets both his boss and his mortal enemy into his safe little cozy lounge, and blinks in confusion as Celestino closes the door again. Nikiforov is limping, he realizes, eyes wide, and slowly he takes him in. He looks exhausted, his clothes are torn and that _is_ dried blood on the leg of his pants, and he’s holding a briefcase.

Oh.

_Oh, shit._

“You defected,” he breathes, eyes going wide. “You defected, didn’t you?”

Nikiforov shifts his weight, winces, and then offers a wan smile again, shrugging as he hobbles to a chair. “Well, yes, I suppose you could say that. Remember last time we met? In Paris?”

Yuuri remembers. It was just two months ago. They almost fought that night, standing in the rain, ready to duel. Nikiforov was sent to impede a transfer of evidence between one of their field agents and Sara, who would take it back to headquarters, and Yuuri was there to stop him from stealing it or assaulting either agent. He did his job well, but instead of fighting him, Nikiforov just laughed, shoulders slumping.

Yuuri still remembers the gleam in his eyes—almost defiant, but oddly joyous, too—as he shook his head, rain slicking his hair against his face. “You win again, Katsuki,” he said, almost pleased. “My superiors will not be pleased with me. You did well.”

He always did think it was an odd comment, an odd _compliment,_ but now…

“When you said they wouldn’t be pleased with you,” he says softly, “did you mean…”

Nikiforov shrugs again, the rise and fall of his shoulders a hundred times more eloquent than words. He brushes his hair out of his eyes. “When you blackmail a man too much, he stops caring about what he has to lose. It is the only way he can cope. And when he realizes there is nothing more you can take from him, you cannot control him any longer.”

Yuuri stares at him for a long, long moment.

He’s never known much about Nikiforov—only that he works (well, _worked_ ) for a very shady organization of privatized intelligence operatives, ones playing the game for their own gains rather than for the good of others. His employers (former employers) were always after sensitive targets and important information, and Yuuri got used to seeing him in every shadow—most of their encounters weren’t as dramatic as Paris, though their first meeting _was_ explosive enough to nearly kill them both.

But now, realizing that he was blackmailed into working for them… The punishment for failure must have been brutal, and… _nothing more they could take_ …

It puts everything into a new light.

“I am sorry that happened to you,” he says, stiffly and lamely, and then bows slightly, as if that makes any of it better. “Ciao-Ciao… should I stay? If you would rather discuss things in private, I can go.”

“Stay,” Celestino says, leaning against the back of the couch. Yuuri perches on the edge of the kitchen counter, then pauses as the espresso machine catches his eye. God bless Sara. “We have a lot to discuss. You can help me get through it.”

“Okay,” he says, padding over to the mugs. This should be awkward, but it’s the middle of the night and perhaps a little too surreal for that to have hit him yet. “Anyone else want a latte?”

“Are they good lattes?” Nikiforov asks.

Yuuri snorts. “The espresso that comes out of this thing? Certified by _all_ of our Italian operatives. Including Ciao-Ciao.”

Nikiforov offers a flicker of a smile. He’s _nervous_ , Yuuri realizes, and that more than anything puts him more at ease. “In that case, I’ll take one, please.”

Celestino takes the briefcase and sets it on the table, opening it with a _click_ and starting to thumb through documents. “Get him some painkillers, too, Yuuri—he’s nursing a fractured leg. Tomorrow we’re getting him a set of crutches; seems like the set in the stockroom have disappeared on us.”

“Yes, sir,” Yuuri says, hurrying over to one of the kitchen cabinets for a bottle of medicine and a glass. He sneaks another glance at Nikiforov as he fills it with water, wondering—he ran from his former employers, got injured (shot, most likely, judging from the hole in his pants and the blood splatter), and wound up here, all for… what, exactly?—and brings it over to him. Nikiforov smiles at him again, more genuinely this time, as he offers the pills and the water.

“Thank you, Agent Katsuki,” he says, knocking the pills back and taking several slow sips. Yuuri tries not to stare at the curve of his throat bobbing as he swallows. “You are very kind.”

“It’s nothing,” Yuuri mumbles, looking away.

“On the contrary!” Nikiforov shakes his head. “I think it’s quite _fabulous.”_

Yuuri stares at him, heat rising to his cheeks, as Nikiforov holds his gaze for a long moment, and then (horror of horrors) _winks._

“Fabulous” is the word written in glitter on his ass. Nikiforov was looking at his ass. In these fucking hot pink booty shorts. They were Phichit’s idea—oh, god, Yuuri is going to _kill_ Phichit. Viktor Nikiforov was looking _at his ass._ And is now making _jokes_ about the word written _on his ass._

“Yuuri,” Celestino says. “He’s under our protection right now.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Yuuri protests.

Celestino, who knows him far too well, just raises an eyebrow. “I know.”

* * *

 _20180420215437_ _  
_ _[Present day.]_

“Why hello, _darling,_ ” Christophe purrs, walking his fingers up Yuuri’s arm. “Now what’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone?”

Yuuri gives him an extremely dry look, but plays along, acting his part—he’s a shy wallflower, here because his boss wants him to make connections in the underground intelligence world, because he has important material to sell. “Um, I don’t know!” He even forces a high-pitched giggle, and the alcohol makes blushing all too easy. “I—I guess… drinking champagne? That’s what… that’s what I’ve been doing!”

“How come _I_ couldn’t be the one who gets to flirt with the hottest agent on the team?” Viktor laments, sighing through both of their earpieces. Chris grins like the cat with the cream as he leans into Yuuri’s space a little more, under the guise of murmuring into his ear.

“Now, now, Vitya,” he purrs. “There’s no need to be jealous of your own fiancé.”

Viktor sniffs daintily as Chris pulls away with a light caress to his neck and takes him by the hand to lead him over to the dance floor. “As if I’d want to be flirting with _you._ ”

“There’s no need to be rude,” Yuuri murmurs, hiding a smile.

“You’re both teasing me because you’re terrible people,” Viktor complains. “I see you. You owe me, Yuuri, I’m keeping count of mean things you do to me tonight…”

A slow rumba starts to play as Chris guides him to the dance floor, and just as discussed, Yuuri lets himself shine. He loves to dance, and it shows in every line of his body as he sways his hips, letting Chris lead him through an opening to fan position and a set of hip swivels. He’s the shy wallflower who’s blooming with potential—he wants eyes on him, he wants to be intriguing, he wants to be _desired._

Mr. Lemon Monstrosity won’t know what hit him.

“Th-this is strike two,” Viktor breathes. “Yuuri…”

“Oh, hush,” Chris murmurs, quiet enough that Yuuri can only hear him through the earpiece. “We all know who gets to take this dress off him tonight.”

Viktor’s smug chuckle just serves to make Yuuri blush again, but as Chris dips him and he extends his leg skyward, he smirks at the nearest security camera he sees.

* * *

 

 _20140912203856_ _  
_ _[Three years ago.]_

Viktor (“Viktor”, not “Agent Nikiforov”, as Yuuri used to call him) ends up as a consultant under their protection. He spends his time in hiding, for the most part, especially while his leg is healing; as a result, he’s in the lounge doing terribly at MarioKart more often than not. Yuuri sometimes stares at him as he cheers from a distant fifth place and wonders how the hell he ever found this man intimidating.

“It’s weird,” Phichit agrees, from the comfort of their apartment a few streets away. He tucks his legs under himself on the bed, rocking back and forth as he pops a gummy bear into his mouth, and then shrugs. “Probably weirder for you, I mean. He tried to kill you, and now he’s just the dude that knows a lot of intel about our enemies but also can’t play Super Mario Bros for shit? That’s _gotta_ be weird.”

Yuuri huffs out a laugh and steals a gummy bear—he only likes the red ones, so it takes a moment of sifting through the bag. “Yeah. I dunno. Like, as if being all friendly isn’t weird enough… is he just here forever now? How can we trust him after everything…”

And yet, even as he complains, his voice peters out.

Viktor was blackmailed, by his own admission. Hurt until he had nothing left to lose, if he could be believed—and certainly, he did get shot. But how are any of them to know that his own organization wouldn’t have done that to him on purpose? _Play up their sympathies. Pretend to desert. Find out their secrets._

It just rubs him the wrong way. Yuuri doesn’t know what to believe. He wants to trust Celestino’s judgment; Celestino seems to find Viktor’s testimony sound, and Yuuri doesn’t mean to disobey his orders, but he can’t help but be suspicious.

“I know.” Phichit sighs and pats his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. He’s good, but he’s not good enough that he’s gonna pull a fast one on all of us combined.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri agrees, still dissatisfied. “I guess you’re right.”

He’s at headquarters late one night, going through Sara’s latest mission report as Celestino instructed him to, as he gets ready for another field mission in three days. He’s not too worried; it’s going to be a routine evidence pick-up, and it isn’t particularly high-clearance. All the same, it won’t do to get sloppy, so he does his best to read through Sara’s notes over and over, until he probably could recite them in his sleep.

It’s nearly two, so he figures he can make a quick cup of tea, read through the briefing again, and then call it a night. He groans, stretches, and leaves the “library” (what they all like to call the briefing and study room) for the lounge, padding across the carpeted floor as quietly as he can.

He reaches the kitchen, turns on the kettle, and blows out a breath, leaning back against the countertop as he stares across the room, information swirling around in his head. He’s so distracted by running over plans and numbers that it takes him a solid thirty seconds to realize he’s staring at the couch, and more specifically, at the man on it.

Viktor is _asleep._

There’s a softness in his face that Yuuri has never seen before, as if the calmness of sleep smooths away his wariness and the carefully-crafted indolence he wears at all times. He looks _normal._ Human, vulnerable, and normal, just like the rest of him.

It occurs to Yuuri that he’s never seen Viktor asleep before.

On the one hand, it could be a ploy—a risky one, for sure, but still a ploy—to establish trust: showing vulnerability to them should make them think he’s legitimate, and less likely to suspect him of mischief in the future.

On the other hand…

He could just actually be legitimate.

Yuuri hesitates for a long moment, biting his lip. Viktor sighs in his sleep, curling in on himself, and mumbles something Yuuri doesn’t catch, and suddenly he feels like such a creep, watching another person sleep. And that’s ridiculous—he’s a _spy,_ of course he’s creepy—but doing it to someone he’s supposedly protecting, as part of the agency whose protection Viktor is under, feels much weirder than normal.

He sighs to himself as the water starts to boil. At the very least he can give him a blanket; he looks cold.

He walks out of the kitchen area and back into the lounge proper, taking one of the blankets from the neat stack in the corner, and goes to spread it over Viktor, but hesitates. Viktor’s eyelashes flutter as he dreams; Yuuri takes a long moment, just looking at him. It’s _so_ strange, seeing him so vulnerable, so soft, so human. Double agent or not, he’s a person, just like the rest of them.

Yuuri opens the blanket and spreads it out.

The second his hand brushes Viktor’s shoulder, his eyes snap open.

And suddenly a hand is grabbing his neck, crushing his throat, and he’s choking and gasping for breath as reflexes take over and he digs his thumbs in _hard,_ seeking out the pressure point in Viktor’s wrist, alarm bells and lack-of-oxygen bells setting off klaxon after klaxon in his brain—

The pressure stops just as suddenly as it came, and Viktor lets go of him with a cry. Yuuri stumbles back, clutching at his throat and wheezing as sudden tears spring to his eyes, unbidden. Viktor stares at him with wide-eyed horror, frozen, as he sinks to his knees and coughs.

“Yuuri!” he gasps, shaking his head, and then slowly clambers from the couch and crawls forward. “Yuuri, oh god, I am so, so sorry, I—I acted on impulse—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

He reaches out, and Yuuri flinches away, scrabbling back. Viktor reels back as if slapped.

“I’m _sorry,_ ” he pleads as Yuuri scrambles to his feet. “Please, please, it was an accident, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Yuuri hisses. He’s infuriated, he’s hurt, he’s reeling. Just when he was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, the bastard tries to choke him! Just when he’s trying to—trying to—oh, who’s he kidding, it was an accident. Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor begs, sitting on the floor and clasping his hands beneath his chin. His bad leg, still wrapped in a cast, trails awkwardly behind him. “I’m sorry, please—please don’t throw me out, _please,_ at least—at least kill me instead, if you have to—please, Yuuri, I can’t go back to them, I—please, I’m sorry, please—”

“What are you talking about?” Yuuri asks, more bewildered than upset (though he is still rather upset). “Why the hell would I throw you out or kill you—and aren’t you supposed to be resting your damn leg? Get back on that fucking sofa and don’t talk to me again. That’s what I get for trying to be nice to you, I guess.”

He’s _hurt,_ he realizes as he starts to stalk back to the kitchen. He’s hurt because he _wanted_ to believe Viktor was… going to be a friend, maybe. Going to be one of them. He wanted to believe he could trust him, even if they _did_ have a bad history. He wanted to believe the story about the blackmail and about the defection and everything else. He wanted…

It was an accident, he reminds himself. Just because Viktor doesn’t feel safe enough here to let his guard down, even subconsiously, doesn’t mean he’s a liar. It was an accident.

“You—you aren’t going to hand me back over?” Viktor whispers, behind him, and when Yuuri turns back to him, his face is white as a sheet. “You mean—you’re _not_ going to give me back to them? Even though I—even though I _should_ be punished for that?”

His eyes are gleaming very, very brightly. Too brightly.

Something in Yuuri’s chest pulls, tightens, _breaks_.

He massages his throat with one hand, shakes his head, and opens his mouth only to find no words. It takes him a moment. “I… Viktor. I’m upset, but it was an honest mistake. Why would I—why would anyone _punish_ —”

He stops, because Viktor is staring at him with disbelief and wonder warring in his face. One tear, and then another, roll in twin tracks down his cheeks. “I…”

Either this is a very, _very_ convincing performance, or Viktor is a sincere man who wants to do the right thing, and who just needs a little (or a lot of) help.

To hell with caution, Yuuri thinks, because his heart has already decided where it stands, and his head has no choice but to follow. He works here because he wants to do the right thing, and the right thing is in front of him, on the ground, weeping.

“You weren’t lying at all, were you,” he murmurs, walking a little closer and stopping, right in front of him. “The torture, the blackmail, all of that. You were being honest.”

Viktor nods, chokes on his own breath, and lets out a very quiet, swallowed sob. “I’m _sorry._ ”

Yuuri sinks to one knee in front of him, very tentatively reaches for his hands, and offers a tiny smile, something in his heart aching. His throat still hurts, but—but to be fair, if he woke up in a neutral-at-best environment to an unfamiliar touch, lashing out would be his first instinct, too, and…

“It’s alright,” he says quietly. “I forgive you.”

If the look Viktor is giving him (wide-eyed, hopeful, teary) is anything to go by, nobody has said that to him in a long, long time.

“Thank you,” he says hoarsely, bowing his head. “I… you were trying to be hospitable. Thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri says again, smacking himself because he’s awkward and stupid and does not have any idea of how to handle this situation. Nothing about this is what he was trained for. “It’s fine. I… uh… was making tea. Do you… want some?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” Viktor whispers, not looking up.

Yuuri squeezes his hands. “It’s not.”

He’s about to get up and go back to the kitchen when he remembers that Viktor’s leg is supposed to be immobile right now, and leaving him on the floor would be rather inconsiderate. Viktor doesn’t seem like he would mind too much, given that he seemed to think Yuuri genuinely might throw him out to fend for himself against his former employers and current hunters, but all the same, the thought feels wrong.

“Come on,” he mutters, leaning down to wrap an arm around Viktor’s back, sliding the other under his legs very carefully, mindful of the cast. He lifts him before he can protest and carries him the few steps back to the couch, where he deposits him as gently as he can and steps back.

“Th-thank you,” Viktor mumbles, wiping at his eyes. “I’m sorry I’m so—I shouldn’t be such a disaster, making you pick up the pieces like this. God. I’m sorry, Yuuri. I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

“I think,” Yuuri says, frowning at him, “you’ve been through a lot more than you’ve cared to let on to us. Would I be right about that?”

Viktor looks away. “I don’t make a habit of thinking about it. I didn’t mean to lie. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Yuuri turns, heads back for the kitchen. “Chamomile or mint?”

“Chamomile, please,” Viktor answers, and Yuuri pours still-hot water over two teabags, bringing both steaming mugs back over to the couch. He presses one into Viktor’s hands as he sits down. “Thank you,” Viktor murmurs, eyes downcast. “You’re so incredibly kind.”

Yuuri, who does not think he has been particularly kind or understanding tonight, shakes his head wordlessly as he rubs at his throat. “You… need better people in your life.”

Viktor lifts his head then, and for the second time in ten minutes, he utterly knocks the air from Yuuri’s lungs. This time, though, it’s just because of the radiance of his smile. Yuuri has never seen him smile like that before.

“I think I’ve already found some,” Viktor says, looking right at him. “I think I’ve found one of the best.”

Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat for just a second longer. “Viktor…”

Viktor offers him half the blanket, and they sit quietly and just talk, until their tea runs out, and then they sit and talk some more, until the sky starts to lighten. They sit and talk a little more after that, until Phichit finds them both asleep on opposite ends of the couch, covered in one shared blanket in between.

* * *

 

 _20180420221649_ _  
_ _[Present day.]_

“Oh, interesting,” Viktor murmurs. “Lemon Monstrosity was just talking to the lady in the purple satin suit—ill-fitted, if you ask me, but a nice color, I suppose. And Purple Satin is a certain Ms. Sybil Canute, if you recall…”

“Mmm,” Yuuri hums in quiet agreement. Sybil Canute is a well-known suspect in this business; she’s been spotted at many of these occasions in the past. The Lemon Monstrosity, as Viktor has dubbed him, is likely to be trying to get her to buy information from him, given that she has established credibility in these circles. If he can get his false information to the Lemon Monstrosity—er, _Mr. Vinson,_ it really would not do if he called him that to his face—it might well get sold to Canute, and _that_ would be useful indeed.

“Think you can give him the goods soon, love?”

Yuuri hums a soft affirmative. He’s been at this party for two hours now; that’s two hours too long. He can’t wait til it’s over and he can go snuggle with his fiancé. Why did he drink the champagne? He should know by now that being even lightly buzzed just makes him clingy. But the man he wants to cling on isn’t _here_ now.

“Wonderful,” Viktor coos in his ear. “Soon you can dance with me instead, my darling. Won’t that be nice?”

Yuuri sighs softly this time, sipping his water to cover a smile. “Mhm. Very.”

“Oh—Lemon Monstrosity seems to be coming your way,” Viktor warns. Yuuri very casually continues sipping his water and staring out at the party with wide eyes, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself when he’s not on the dance floor. “Disgusting. I don’t know how he thinks he even deserves to be as the same _room_ as you when you’re so beautiful and he’s wearing _that,_ let alone _approaching_ you. No sense of shame in this man, clearly.”

Yuuri has to stifle a laugh as Vinson approaches him, giving him a clear once-over, up and down, that makes him want to roll his eyes. “Why, hello there,” he greets, voice low and expression sly. “What’s a delicate little flower like you doing hiding in the corner? I saw you dancing out there with Mathieu! Surely you could be the life of the party, little birdie!”

 _“Little birdie?”_ Viktor scoffs.

“Oh, um,” Yuuri stammers, looking at his feet with practiced bashfulness and keeping his voice high and nervous. “Th-that was just because he asked! I, um… I don’t really know why my employer told _me_ to represent us here, I’m sorry, I must be so awkward right now…”

One of Vinson’s hands touches his cheek to make him look up, and Yuuri has to resist the urge to slap it away. “Now, now, there’s no need to be scared,” Vinson says. “What’s your name, birdie?”

“Takada,” Yuuri says, ducking his head and letting his false name roll off his tongue. “Jiro Takada, sir. What’s yours?”

“Edmund,” Vinson says, smiling. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Edmund Vinson.”

Just as he’s practiced, Yuuri gasps, acting like he didn’t mean to be so obvious. Clearly, it pleases Vinson, because amusement and satisfaction creep into his smile. His hand drops from Yuuri’s cheek to his shoulder.

“You may have heard of me, Jiro Takada,” Vinson says smoothly. “So. Tell me about your employer, why don’t you?”

“If he doesn’t get his filthy hands off you soon,” Viktor hisses, clearly irritated on Yuuri’s behalf in a way that makes Yuuri desperately want to kiss him. “Sweetheart, I know you could break his fingers, but I still want to do it for you.”

“Oh—um—my employer,” Yuuri stammers, wishing he could acknowledge his fiancé’s love and support. “Right! Well, um, she… works in the intelligence business, and there’s some, um… potentially very lucrative commodities that she’s in control of right now, and… she thought sending me out here to meet—to meet _you,_ sir, if I could—would be a good way to get that information… to you? If you were… interested?”

“Potentially lucrative commodities, hmm?” Vinson leans a little closer, and Yuuri takes a tiny step back. The hand on his shoulder stops him from going further, though, and Vinson smiles again. “Oh, I am _very_ interested, little birdie. Why don’t we have a dance or two, and then we can retire somewhere private to talk a bit more?”

“Forget fingers,” Viktor mutters. “I’m going for arms. Sleazy bastard. Knows your persona is scared of him and still presses. Or presses _because_ of it! I bet it’s because he can’t get anyone who’s not scared of him to sleep with him, disgusting little lemon monster.”

Oh, Yuuri is going to go home and kiss that man _senseless_ tonight.

“Y-yes, a dance sounds good,” he manages, while Viktor grumbles some more.

“Viktor,” Chris chimes in over their connection. “Yuuri can handle himself. You don’t need to worry so much.”

“That man is filth and doesn’t deserve to lay a _finger_ on Yuuri,” Viktor sniffs. “I’m not _worried._ My Yuuri is very capable. That doesn’t mean I have to like watching a slimy pig drool over him.”

“Well, no,” Chris agrees. “He is scum. But I’d be surprised if you beat Yuuri to breaking his fingers, if the occasion arose.”

Vinson’s hand slides down the open back of his dress as they walk to the dance floor, and Yuuri suppresses the urge to jab his elbow into the man’s solar plexus, ram his knee into his groin, and then grab his hair and slam his face into his knee on its way to the floor. Vinson thinks he intimidates “Jiro” into submission, and apparently he likes it that way.

It’s enough to make sure Yuuri has no regrets about giving this man what’s coming to him soon.

* * *

 

 _20150205142638_ _  
_ _[Two and a half years ago.]_

They’re in the park, walking together, side by side, when Viktor spots the duck pond and all but drags Yuuri over with almost childlike excitement. He finds a nice spot in the grass where they can sit, watching the ducks serenely drift by, and plops down and pats the ground next to him, where Yuuri has no choice but to settle down too.

“I wish I had something to feed them,” he sighs, smiling out over the water. “They’re so cute, Yuuri. It’s nice to see things that don’t care about politics and intelligence reports. All they worry about is how warm the water is. Wouldn’t it be nice to live a simple life like that?”

“Maybe,” Yuuri agrees, stretching out his legs. “But I think if I was a duck, I would just start stressing about stuff in the water anyway. I wouldn’t know about politics, but I’d know about like… okay, human me doesn’t know what ducks worry about, but duck me would worry about all of it. Like… water movement or something. Whatever.”

Viktor hums. “I get that,” he says, but there’s something sly in his smile, and Yuuri gives him a suspicious glance. “You’d worry about things like… _current events._ ”

“Oh my god.” Yuuri picks up the nearest twig and throws it at him, triumphant when it sticks in his sweater. “That was terrible, I’m never going out in public with you again.”

Viktor laughs brightly, plucking the twig from his chest and dropping it back down to the grass. “Oh, come on, Yuuri! There’s no need to be so harsh!”

He’s come a long way from the man that crept into Celestino’s office six months ago—his smiles are so much more genuine these days that Yuuri is almost blown away by the difference. He still doesn’t like to talk much about his past but will if pressed, and from what he’s learned, Yuuri is quietly amazed at how strong he is, to have overcome everything that’s happened to him and still smile at things as simple as twigs in the grass.

Slowly but surely, he’s becoming part of their team, part of their unit, part of their little patchwork family. In fact—this, right now? This isn’t a mission. This is just two friends taking a walk on a temperate, cloudy day.

Viktor’s eyes are so blue, Yuuri realizes, looking at him. He’s watching the ducks again, placid and content, and the softness in his face is…

 _Beautiful,_ his mind supplies, unbidden, and he nearly flinches in surprise.

“What is it?” Viktor turns to him, raising one pale eyebrow. “You’re staring. Is there something on my face?”

“Oh—sorry,” Yuuri stammers, looking away quickly. “I just… zoned out. I didn’t realize I was staring at you.”

“Mm,” Viktor hums, going back to watching the pond. They sit together for another quiet moment as the breeze picks up, a little chilly as it rustles through the trees behind them, and dies back down again.

_Plop._

A drop of water splashes onto the back of Yuuri’s hand, and he blinks at it. It’s joined by another, and then one in his hair, and he yips. “Viktor, it’s about to rain, we should probably get going…”

“Yes,” Viktor agrees, and Yuuri hops to his feet, dusting grass off his legs and then holding out his hand. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles.

Viktor hesitates for an instant before taking his hand. Yuuri doesn’t spare a moment in hauling him to his feet and hurrying back to the path, dragging Viktor behind him as the rain starts to fall harder. It’s going to get all over his glasses at this rate, and he _hates_ trying to see with water-covered glasses, and they walked all the way here without an umbrella because they’re idiots who took a chance on luck and failed, miserably.

By the time they get back to Phichit and Yuuri’s apartment, they’re both soaked through. Yuuri has given up on his glasses entirely, tucking them into the collar of his shirt, and wants nothing more than a hot shower and some tea.

There is, however, only one bathroom, and Viktor is his guest, so…

“You can have first shower,” he says, draping his wet sweater over the back of a chair and shivering. “I’ll find you clothes to borrow—and I’ll, I’ll put on some tea.”

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks, hesitating in the doorway. “I don’t mind waiting—”

“We are _both_ going to freeze if we stand here and argue about courtesy,” Yuuri huffs. “Go.”

Viktor laughs softly and goes.

Yuuri puts water in his kettle and sets it to boil, then heads to his room and finds a big, old T-shirt and the longest sweatpants he owns, plus some boxers he hopes will fit, and knocks on the bathroom door. There’s a vague yell over the sound of pouring water that he takes as an affirmative, so he opens the door and sticks his head in. Warm steam immediately washes over him, and he can’t help but sigh.

Raising his voice to be heard over the shower, he announces, “I brought you clothes!” before retreating again, going back to the kitchen to steep his tea and wait.

Luckily, Viktor doesn’t take very long at all, coming down the hallway in the mismatched outfit Yuuri put together on him. The sweatpants are still a little short, rising above his ankles, and the shirt is a little tight on his broad shoulders, and it’s oddly endearing. However, Yuuri is absolutely freezing, and he’s not going to stand around and contemplate Viktor in his clothing.

He hauls himself into the shower, shivering, and stands there until the hot water thaws him out properly. Only after that does he bother washing his hair.

When he towels off, gets dressed, and returns to the kitchen, Viktor is in the living room, curled up in one corner of the couch and looking at his phone. Yuuri lets him be for the moment, getting his nice, strong black tea from the kitchen and grabbing the forgotten mug of lemon-green for Viktor, and goes back to the couch.

“Here.”

Viktor looks up when Yuuri holds the mug out, and with a murmured _thanks,_ accepts it. Their fingers brush, and oddly, he… flinches.

Yuuri blinks, wonders if that was a trick of the light or something, and shrugs it off, settling down next to him. He leans over to grab the remote, lets the TV turn on and wash white noise over them as the news blathers on, and then leans back, tea in hand, with a sigh.

His knee brushes Viktor’s leg. Viktor pulls away.

Yuuri frowns.

“Sorry,” he says, scooting away a little. “Do you not like being touched? You could have just said so. I don’t mind.”

Viktor gapes for a second. “What—no, no, that’s not it at all!”

Yuuri tilts his head to the side, confused. “You keep pulling away, though. And I didn’t think—was grabbing your hand earlier too much? I’m sorry.”

“No,” Viktor insists, shaking his head. “No—it’s the opposite, Yuuri, I—”

He takes a deep breath, suddenly very frazzled, and Yuuri blinks. There’s something underlying this that he’s clearly not seeing, if it’s bothering Viktor this much.

Running an agitated hand through his hair, Viktor blows out his breath and puffs out his cheeks for a moment. “I. Nobody has—I spent the past several years alone, and—well, personally, I mean, you see, my employer weren’t—they could _never_ be friends to me, and nobody else was, either, so it’s just _different,_ I suppose—not a bad different, but I’m not _used_ to people touching me without wanting to hurt me, and—”

“Viktor,” Yuuri breathes, his voice soft. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Viktor’s past is so full of suffering. Sometimes, it’s all too easy to remember.

Viktor breathes out again, a little shaky. “It’s nice,” he finally admits. “I—it’s _nice,_ letting people touch me. I just… never thought I deserved it.”

Impulsively, Yuuri reaches over and takes his hand.

Unlike the first time, it’s very deliberate and very slow, and he sees Viktor’s eyes (so blue, so very blue) go wide as he twines his fingers between his, squeezing firmly. Viktor’s hand is warm, and so is Yuuri’s, and he can feel the little bump of a scar (Yuuri gave him that scar last year) near the lowest knuckle of his index finger. He has very long, slender fingers; one might call them _elegant._

Those elegant fingers are trembling, just slightly.

Yuuri looks up at him, a little less certain. “Is… is this okay?”

“Very okay,” Viktor breathes, licking his lips. “You… you don’t mind?”

Yuuri shakes his head; why would he mind holding Viktor’s hand? He holds Phichit’s hand, sometimes. They’ve slept in the same bed before, clinging to each other after long, tough missions left one or both of them feeling vulnerable. Does Viktor know that it’s allowed, asking for hugs or affection or help in general, is all allowed?

“Of course not.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, very softly. “Thank you.”

Yuuri shifts, scoots back over until his side is pressed against Viktor’s. “This is okay, too, if it’s okay with you.”

There is something plaintive in Viktor’s eyes for an instant before he closes them, letting out a soft sigh. “I’ll gladly take whatever you want to give me.”

“No—”

Yuuri shakes his head. That’s _always_ his problem, isn’t it? He holds himself on the outside, takes what he’s given, and pastes on that false smile that he never seems to care if he gets called on. He’s afraid, Yuuri thinks, afraid of rejection, and so he tries to make himself fit in the acceptable boxes as much as he possibly can. But that’s not right, and that’s not what Yuuri wants in a teammate or in a friend.

“No?” Viktor asks, stiffening.

“No,” Yuuri says more forcefully, squeezing his hand. “I don’t want to just blindly give whatever and hope that’s what you need. I want you to _ask_ for things, if you want or need them.”

He catches Viktor’s gaze as he speaks, and _holds_ it, keeping his own expression as intent and serious as he can. He means this. He had this talk with Phichit a long, long time ago—teammates can’t effectively work together if they don’t know each other’s needs, and friends are just (in Phichit’s words), super high-levelled teammates.

Viktor is the first to look away, his hair flopping forward over his face as he looks down into his tea.

Yuuri sighs and softens, balancing his mug in his lap to run his hand through his hair without letting go of Viktor. “You don’t have to ask right now, if you can’t,” he relents, “but you should. In the future. If you need something, you should ask for it. Because if we’re going to work together, we’re supposed to trust each other enough that we can be vulnerable, and—”

“Can you hold me?”

Viktor’s voice is so quiet that Yuuri almost misses it. He stops talking abruptly, smiles—Viktor asked, he _asked_ —and nods, leaning over to put his tea on the coffee table. “Come here,” he murmurs, leaning back against the armrest, and with a little prodding and a little tugging, he guides Viktor into his arms, laying against his chest. Viktor makes a little sound of contentment as Yuuri wraps his arms around him, resting his hands on his back, and closes his eyes.

He’s touch starved, Yuuri thinks, resting his chin atop his head. By his own admission, nobody has been affectionate to him in _years._ Yuuri knows he himself isn’t the most physically affectionate person, but he’s still used to the little things—a pat on the shoulder from Ciao-Ciao after a job well done, or Phichit’s enthusiastic hugs, or Sara’s exuberant pecks on the cheek every time she returns from an assignment, successful and elated. Viktor hasn’t had anything like that.

…Yet.

He’ll get there.

(The next time the team gets dinner together, Yuuri slides into the booth next to Viktor and makes a point of pressing their thighs together as they sit. Viktor gives him a surprised look, but softens into a warm smile, so different from the pasted-on one, and for the rest of the night, he basks in the feeling of having done something right.)

* * *

 

 _20180420224536_ _  
_ _[Present day.]_

“Thanks,” Yuuri mutters, drying his hands and mouth on a tissue and tossing it away. He takes a moment to reapply his lipstick, irritated that it smeared, as the music outside the restroom swells and guests laugh. Chris won’t respond, but he knows he heard him. For a moment, he has privacy, the door locked between himself and the party, and he lets himself breathe.

“I can’t _believe_ that human piece of excrement,” Viktor is fuming. “How dare he try and kiss you like that, how _dare_ he—”

“Vitya,” Yuuri murmurs, wanting to hold him, wanting to be held. He leans against the counter and lets out a slow breath, touching his hair to make sure it’s still gelled in place after the rough hand that tried to grab a fistful of it, before Chris intercepted and all but hauled Vinson off for a dance of his own. “Sweetheart. I’m alright.”

“What he tried to _do_ to you absolutely _is not_ alright!” Viktor hisses, protective and furious. “He tried to put his filthy, ugly hands on you, he was going to… to…”

“Nothing bad would have happened to me,” Yuuri soothes, closing his eyes, rubbing his temples. “I could easily have fought him off, if I had to. It just would have meant blowing my cover.”

Neither of them address the elephant in the room—that Viktor is afraid of just how far Yuuri might be willing to go to protect the mission, at a cost to himself; that Yuuri might be afraid of that, too.

They’ll talk about it tonight. Tonight, when it’s just them, curled up in each other’s arms, safe and sound.

“I know,” Viktor says after a moment, his voice tight. “I know. I trust you, Yuurasha. I know I can trust you and what you’re capable of. I just…”

“I love you,” Yuuri interrupts softly.

Viktor’s reply is immediate. “I love you too.”

The amount of time he can hide in the bathroom without looking suspicious is drawing to a close, so Yuuri sighs and tucks his lipstick back into his purse and hangs it from his shoulder again. He wishes he could just climb out the window and sneak across the terraced lawns to the van and into Viktor’s arms, but… not yet. Not yet.

Soon, but not yet.

“At least I got him the information,” he offers, smiling wanly. “He’ll sell that flash drive, Vitya, you know he will, so it will work and everything will have been worth it.”

The flash drive, which he sold to Vinson on behalf of his “employer”, will get auctioned off to one of the bidders present at tonight’s gala. Canute will be one of them, and Yuuri has a feeling she might end up being the buyer. Vinson will sell the information to his highest bidder, and it’ll trickle down the line until someone ends up in Celestino’s trap.

Yuuri hopes they trace it all the way back up the line to Vinson, just for the petty satisfaction he’ll get when he gets to bring the bastard in, slam him to his knees, and ask, _remember me?_

(If Viktor doesn’t beat him to it, of course.)

“Yes, but still.” Viktor is unsatisfied, cold rage still hovering just below the surface of his voice. “I… god. Okay. You’re sure you’re alright, darling?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri promises, aching to settle into his arms. He’s a little shaken, but past that, he’s just… tired. Ready to be done with this farce of a party, ready to go home, ready to curl up with his fiancé and rest. “I’m fine. Please don’t worry.”

“My sweet Yuurasha,” Viktor murmurs, sounding a little frazzled. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“I’ll be with you soon,” Yuuri offers, closing his eyes for a moment. “I should go back out there now, though. Chris can only hold him off for so long. Don’t worry, though, Vitya. I’ll be alright.”

“Right,” Viktor sighs. “Just… alright. Be careful, enjoy the rest of the party, I guess, and I’ll see you soon, my love.”

“See you soon,” Yuuri echoes, and leaves the restroom.

* * *

 

20150926230413  
_[Two years ago.]_

“He’s a natural,” Phichit murmurs, voice low and eyes shining with admiration. Yuuri crosses his arms and pointedly does not scowl, even though he really, really wants to, because he’s more professional than that. “It was _such_ a good call to make him the honeypot instead of you, holy shit.”

Across the banquet hall, Viktor flutters his eyelashes and continues to tease and charm the man he’s talking to, trying to loosen him up with intoxication and attraction so he lets some secrets slip. He’s the star of the show, dressed in a breathtaking gold-and-fuchsia affair, and all eyes are on him and his unfairly beautiful face. His eyes are so blue and his smiles so _perfect_ , and…

“This is stupid,” Yuuri mutters, looking away. He doesn’t want to see the target take Viktor’s hand, doesn’t want to see the way the other man is leering at him, doesn’t want to see Viktor’s fake little titters and giggles. “This is so stupid. I can’t believe this is an actual mission i have to be on.”

Phichit gives him an infuriatingly knowing look. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Training for field work includes refining one’s awareness of their own body and its expressions. Yuuri’s extensive background in dance helped him a lot with this aspect of his training, and at the moment, said training is the only reason he’s not glaring, scuffing his feet, or staring at the floor. After a moment, he makes himself look back at Viktor, like many people nearby are, just to fit in again.

He’s _not_ jealous or something dumb like that. He just doesn’t like seeing his friend have to put on stupid flashy dresses (never mind how excited Viktor was to have the opportunity to dress up) and flirt with stupid untrustworthy people (as if Viktor is struggling or can’t take care of himself) for the sake of a mission. It’s dumb and he hates it.

Besides… seeing the way that the target places his hand on Viktor’s arm, almost _possessively,_ makes his skin crawl. He _hates_ this.

He hates it so much that four hours later, when everything is over and they’re back to home base and Phichit is off handing Celestino their mission report, he’s still grumpy as hell. Viktor, standing there and blowing on his steaming chamomile tea and still wearing that fucking dress, seems to notice.

“Is something wrong, Yuuri?”

He tips his head to the side, concerned, and his blue blue blue eyes are filled with genuine curiosity and worry, and Yuuri’s irritation spikes. He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s still so angry, but he _is,_ so he stalks over to a beanbag and grabs a Playstation controller, finally biting out a cold “No.”

Viktor hesitates for a second—Yuuri can see him frown in the reflection on the loading screen—before walking over and sitting on the beanbag next to him. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” Yuuri snaps. “Go away, Vitya.”

Viktor sucks in a breath. Then, horror of horrors, instead of snapping back and starting a fight or just leaving him alone, he hangs his head and hunches his shoulders, becoming small and vulnerable. “I don’t know what I did,” he admits very quietly, “but I’m sorry I upset you. You—you’re very important to me, and I don’t want to lose you. Please forgive me?”

Just like that, the irritation drains away and leaves a vague sense of guilt. Yuuri leaves Call of Duty on the main screen and puts the controller down, reaching over to take his hand as remorse turns his stomach. Viktor responds well to touch, he knows that, and since he clearly is shit at words, maybe he can communicate better this way.

“I’m not mad at you,” he mumbles, staring at the loops in the carpet. “Sorry. I… I was being a dick. I’m not mad at you.”

What _was_ he mad about?

He was mad about seeing Viktor flirting with the target all night. He was mad about having to watch all that happen from the sidelines. He was mad about…

Oh, shit.

Maybe he _was_ jealous.

“But you _are_ mad?” Viktor asks, still quiet, still soft. He squeezes Yuuri’s hand with quiet desperation, almost begging him not to let go, and Yuuri realizes that the unnamed yearning in his chest is the almost-painful desire to kiss him.

“I… no,” Yuuri sighs, taking a breath and blowing it out with a big huff. “Okay. Okay. Fuck. Sorry. I’m not mad at you, I don’t think I’m mad at all, but I just realized something and… uh…”

“Do you still want me to go away?”

Viktor’s voice is higher-pitched than usual; he’s expecting rejection, Yuuri realizes. For a moment, he thinks about how this must feel from the other end—he’s angry, he says _go away_ , he provides no explanation—and winces. It’s no secret among them that Viktor is afraid of rejection, of impermanence, of being left behind. It must have felt like…

Yuuri turns to him and abruptly pulls him into a hug.

“Not at all,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and pressing his face into Viktor’s hair. “Sorry. Sorry. We’re okay, Vitya. We’re fine. I was being stupid. You—you’re very important to me, too.”

Viktor lets out a shaky breath and relaxes in his arms, leaning against his chest and laying his head against his shoulder. It can’t be very comfortable, though, the way he’s leaning forward over the gap between their beanbags, and after a moment he pulls back.

At least he’s smiling, now.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking Yuuri’s hand again. “I… I was scared. All evening you were so distant—are you alright?”

Yuuri swallows hard. He’s sitting next to his good friend—his horribly attractive good friend—in a dim and cozy room, on the floor with beanbags, and none of the upset feelings from earlier are there anymore. There’s just… trust, love, and Vitya.

He’s figured it out now.

He’s not just crushing, and he’s an idiot.

He’s in love.

“I think so,” he answers, licking his lips nervously. “I… realized something about myself just now, and I spent most of tonight coming to terms with it, I think.”

Viktor nods, understanding. “But you’re okay now?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. “I think so.”

Viktor smiles at him with all the tenderness of a freshly-blooming rosebud, and Yuuri can’t resist any longer. Here, together, in the dim and cozy room, it’s a thousand times more intimate than the crowded banquet hall, and somehow, knowing that this smile is a smile for him alone makes it all the more special.

This is the kind of moment he knows he’ll always treasure. Not the false smiles and the acts Viktor puts on for work—that’s just the _job_ —but this. The intimacy, the trust, the softness, the laughter.

“Oh, Vitya,” he sighs, and leans in to press his lips to his cheek.

When he withdraws, Viktor’s eyes are wide.

(So blue. Yuuri could get lost in them, like he’s lying on his back and daydreaming of falling into the sky on a clear, cloudless day.)

“I… Yuuri?”

Yuuri ducks his head, losing his confidence for a moment. “Was… that alright?”

Viktor reaches out, touches his cheek, grazes his fingers along his jaw, and cups his chin. “More than alright,” he breathes, his voice low and intense as he leans in closer. “Yuuri… may I kiss you?”

Yuuri’s stomach ties itself into five dozen new kinds of knots in the second that it takes his brain to catch up to the moment as he stares, wide-eyed, and then whispers, “Yes.”

Viktor cups his jaw in both hands and leans in, kissing him very gently, very sweetly, tasting like the tea he’s been sipping, and Yuuri feels his eyes close of their own volition as he leans into the kiss, tilting his head aside to deepen it.

He never expected Viktor’s lips to be so _soft._ And that’s silly, because he knows Viktor uses only the fanciest of lip balms, takes care of his skin with an elaborate routine Yuuri isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to remember, prides himself on it—but it’s one thing to know it in theory and quite another to _know it,_ to know it in truth and experience, to know it by feeling those soft lips pressed against his own, gentle and sweet and tender. He never expected to ever have Viktor touch him so tenderly.

When Viktor pulls back, Yuuri’s heart is in his throat, threatening to spill out of him as joyous, bubbly laughter, and he can’t help but touch his fingers to his own lips as a tremulous smile spreads across his face. “O-oh…”

“Good oh?” Viktor asks, but he’s smiling, too, and suddenly Yuuri throws caution to the wind and crawls from his beanbag onto Viktor’s, crawls between Viktor’s legs and presses their bodies together and kisses him again, relishing the surprised little gasp he steals from Viktor’s mouth and the way his silky hair parts so easily under his questing fingers.

Kissing Viktor Nikiforov should not feel so natural, so right, and so easy. It shouldn’t, because a little over a year ago they were holding each other at gunpoint, but it _is,_ because Viktor is tender and loving and so much better than Yuuri ever used to give him credit for, and the little _sounds_ he makes when he’s kissed are far too tantalizing to ever give up.

“Yuuri,” Viktor gasps when Yuuri finally pulls back, needing to breathe. “Oh, god, Yuuri.”

Heart pounding with exhilaration, Yuuri holds him tighter. “Vitya.”

Viktor touches his cheek, eyes shining as he smiles. “This is—this is okay? You want this—you… you want me?”

Fondness crashes over him like a tsunami, and he leans in to kiss Viktor’s forehead, arms wrapped around his shoulders. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. If you want me, too.”

“Absolutely,” Viktor murmurs, kissing him again. He nips at Yuuri’s lower lip just so slightly, his hand cradling the back of his neck, and Yuuri is barely aware of letting out a quiet _ah_ into his mouth. He could spend the rest of his life kissing Viktor, and he would be content.

He can’t believe he was jealous of some idiot in an ill-fitted suit. This is Viktor. He knows Viktor, Viktor knows him, and no random target at a party is going to get between them so easily.

He gives Viktor a tight, tight hug after that kiss, nuzzling his face into his hair, and finally lets himself slouch out of his lap and down between his legs, leaning into his chest. Viktor traces his thumb over his lower lip, and Yuuri playfully nips at it.

“So,” he says, wrapping his arms tight around Viktor’s waist. “Um. That. That happened?”

Viktor kisses the top of his head, and Yuuri suddenly feels so incredibly cherished that he could _kick_ himself for being so childish and rude to Viktor all evening. He tightens his arms, gives Viktor a squeeze, and presses a shy little kiss to his shoulder, bared by the straps of the dress. “It did.”

“I’m sorry I was being so shitty earlier,” Yuuri mumbles into his shoulder. His skin is soft and warm, a nice contrast to the slight chill in the room, and being held against his chest like this feels wonderful. “I was an idiot. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Viktor hums softly. “It’s alright,” he says after a moment, kissing the top of his head again. “I think I understand now.”

Ashamed, Yuuri ducks his head and buries his face in Viktor’s chest. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Viktor repeats, genuine and tender. Then he chuckles, and when he speaks again, Yuuri can hear the teasing smile in his voice. “But f you really feel that bad about it, you can make it up to me, luchik.”

Yuuri peeps up at him. “Yeah?”

Viktor nods. “Let me take you on a date sometime soon. A proper date, I mean. Our first real date.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, mind shorting out for a second before it reboots, screaming _A date! A date!!! A DATE!!! WITH VIKTOR!!!_ on loop. “Um. I—yes. Okay. Yes. Wow. Yes?”

Viktor laughs merrily and hugs him close again. “Wonderful,” he sighs, resting his chin atop Yuuri’s head. “I can’t wait.”

* * *

 

 _20180420225249_ _  
_ _[Present day.]_

Something is wrong.

Yuuri wants to leave this party, wants to call it a night and go curl up in Viktor’s lap and sleep already, but all his instincts are telling him to be on his guard, the hairs on the back of his neck are prickling, and anxiety is thrumming a low, fearful pulse throughout his body.

Something feels off.

“I don’t like this,” Viktor mutters suddenly, and Yuuri presses his lips together for a moment. “Three vans just pulled up to the mansion’s back entrance. They’re parking near me—oh, that’s a lot of hired muscle, it looks like. Yuuri, Chris, I think you should get out of there; it looks like we weren’t the only ones wanting to pull something tonight.”

The exits.

The exits are what’s scaring him. There are partygoers standing uncomfortably close to all of them, partygoers who must be more than just partygoers, from how strictly they aren’t abandoning their posts. They should be mingling, moving about, but they’re _not._ The flow of people around the grand ballroom has stilled near each door, as if islands are guarding against traffic.

That’s not good.

“I’m not sure if we can,” he mumbles back, catching Chris’s eye from a few meters away. “Something’s wrong in here, too.”

One of the women in a cocktail dress by the south entrance looks across the room, sweeping her gaze slowly around, and Yuuri watches her from the corner of his eye until she seems to spot what she’s looking for, and he follows her line of sight.

Sybil Canute.

Figures.

“Well, shit.”

“What is it?” Viktor asks. “The guys back here are fiddling with the rear gate. I think they’re going to break in—oh, _fuck!”_

Alarm rears up like a wild stallion and punches Yuuri in the gut. He hasn’t heard that much raw terror in Viktor’s voice in—in—he doesn’t _know_ how long. “Vitya?”

“Viktor?” he hears Chris hiss, quiet but worried. “What happened?”

Viktor is silent.

Through the earpiece, Yuuri hears a loud _bang._ And then another, and another, and a muffled voice yells, _“Open up! Open up or I shoot!”_

“Oh, god,” Viktor whispers. “It’s them, it’s them, they’ve found me—”

_Tink-tink-tink!_

Sybil Canute clinks a fork against her champagne glass once more, until all eyes are on her, and then tosses her hair over her shoulders and smiles venomously. “Thank you, Edmund, for this delightful party!” she crows. “But I’m sorry to tell you that the festivities must end here. You see, my clients and I hav decided we have no need for your middleman services any longer, but you know too much, regrettably, for us to feel secure in letting you simply walk away.”

“Fuck,” Viktor breathes. He sounds _terrified._ Tension coils in every line of Yuuri’s body, making him tremble like a loaded spring. “Yuuri, Yuurasha, listen, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

There’s another _bang!_ , a heartbeat of terrifying silence, and then several voices start shouting in Russian, Viktor’s one of them. Yuuri needs to go to him. Yuuri needs to get to him—Canute must have hired Viktor’s former employers, Yuuri needs to get to him, Yuuri needs to get to him!

“So—to everyone here,” Canute finishes, “you have two choices. Stand with Edmund and die, or accept that you’re in my domain now! And don’t worry—I both protect my patrons and tip quite generously to thank them for their support.”

She knocks back her champagne and sets her glass down, and just as she does, the windows are all blown inwards by the force of ten bombs detonating at once.

* * *

 

20170618142659  
_[One year ago.]_

When Yuuri ducks into the safehouse bedroom, the window is open and the sea breeze gently ruffles the curtains. Viktor lies curled on his side, asleep, and the sunlight makes him look almost peaceful. Outside, waves sough and crash along the shore, the only sound for miles. They’re safe out here, until Celestino’s extraction team gets to them.

He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for Viktor, fingers brushing his shoulder. “Hey, Vitya? Wake up, you have medicine to take.”

Viktor stirs with a soft moan, opening bleary and sad eyes, and takes Yuuri’s hand and presses it to his cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but he shuffles around and presses his face into Yuuri’s thigh, and Yuuri bites his lip, heart aching.

“Vitya,” he murmurs. “It’s gonna be okay, yeah?”

Viktor’s mouth turns into a thin line.

“It’s not,” he says, flat and disillusioned. “He took a crowbar to my fucking knee, Yuuri. Let’s be honest. My fieldwork days are done.” He turns his head, pressing it into the pillow instead of Yuuri’s side, and lets go of his hand.

Yuuri’s breath leaves him as though he’s been punched. “I…”

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Viktor adds, closing his eyes again. He takes a deep breath and lets it out, every line of his body exhausted and defeated. “I appreciate it, but it’s really not necessary.”

Hurt, Yuuri stares at him, but he doesn’t open his eyes again, doesn’t look up. Yuuri puts the pills on the nightstand and clenches nervous fists in his shirt, biting his lip hard at the sudden, unbidden resurgence of the memory of Viktor, screaming, on the ground as the man standing above him brought down the crowbar, again and again and again and—

_Bang!_

Yuuri’s hands were shaking when he pulled the trigger.

It was one of Viktor’s former coworkers, in the agency that blackmailed and used him. He was enraged that Viktor defected and took so much intelligence, that Viktor almost saw the downfall of the entire organization, that thanks to Viktor they were forced to become little more than high-quality muscle for hire, just to survive. Yuuri had to choose between saving Viktor and finishing the mission, and…

Yuuri has never been a fan of hard choices.

(He chose “both”. It wasn’t easy.)

“Take your medicine,” he finally says, forcing all of that to the back of his mind. “I didn’t come here to _babysit._ I’m—just take your medicine, at least. It’ll help with the pain.”

Viktor lets out another deep exhale. “Does it even matter? Who cares. I’m not useful anymore, why bother expending resources like this? Just go back to base, Yuuri.”

“I care, because I’m trying to take care of the man I love!” Yuuri glares. He abruptly stands and leaves the room—he can’t do this, he can’t do this, he can’t do this, Viktor doesn’t even want him anymore. He was too slow, it’s his own damn fault Viktor got this badly hurt, and now Viktor is rejecting him in every way he can while bedridden, and… and…

His legs give out and he sits down hard on the edge of the loveseat on the back porch, a wretched sob tearing itself out of his throat before he can swallow it. It comes out half muffled into his hands as he tears his glasses off and tosses them, uncaring, to the side, shuddering with the force of another sob. Frustration bubbles up and boils helplessness into a mess of burning despair, and he chokes on another sob so hard that he starts coughing.

He’s not sure how long he sits on the porch, staring at the blurry, blue ocean and crying his heart out into the sea breeze, but it can’t have been very long when a voice drifts out, tentative and afraid.

“…Yuuri?”

Fuck, it’s Vitya, Vitya who must have heard him crying through the open window a few meters to his left. God fucking dammit, he should have run further!

“Yuurochka, _please,_ ” Viktor tries again, his voice wobbling dangerously, and the combination of his plea and the affectionate nickname is too much. Yuuri bursts into tears all over again.

“Wh-what do you want?”

“Come back,” Viktor begs plaintively. “Please, Yuuri, I—please.”

Heart still breaking, Yuuri picks himself up and goes back inside. He makes a quick stop in the bathroom to blow his nose and wash the tears from his cheeks, catching sight of his own blotchy red face and weepy eyes with distaste, before he goes back to the bedroom.

Viktor holds out his arms. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri melts, all but running to the bedside, where he falls to his knees and buries his face in Viktor’s neck, chest heaving with the effort of holding back more tears. Viktor clutches him tight, one hand clenching a fistful of his shirt and the other pressing fiercely into his hair, and Yuuri takes a big, shuddering gulp of air.

“Yuuri,” Viktor whispers. “Solnyshko. Lovely, sweet Yuuri. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, darling, shhh, shhh. Hush, don’t cry now, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay,” Yuuri protests, his voice cracking, and he squeezes his eyes shut and presses closer to Viktor. “I was too slow and it’s—it’s my fault you got _hurt,_ how is that okay?!”

“What?”

Viktor shifts, pulling back, and Yuuri lifts his head to look at him with wide, tearful eyes. Viktor’s brow is furrowed and his lips are drawn tight in disapproval.

“It’s not at all your fault,” he says, frowning. “You saved my life. It’s not your fault that I’m…”

“Vitya,” Yuuri whispers.

Viktor looks away. “Broken,” he finishes, his voice soft. “I’m no use to anyone anymore, but that doesn’t mean any of it was your fault. Darling. My darling. You’ve been so good to me—far better than I’ve ever deserved…”

Yuuri’s heart does wild somersaults around his stomach as he stiffens, suddenly aware of each inch of his skin that Viktor is touching, feeling every brush of fingers against his scalp. “You—you’re scaring me, Vitya,” he breathes. “You’re talking like you’re going to break up with me, don’t—don’t, please…”

Viktor gives him a funny look. “You mean you _don’t_ want to dump me?”

Yuuri lets out a quiet cry and kisses him desperately. Viktor kisses him back with passion, pressing him closer, until he withdraws. “No! No, no, never ever, god, Vitya, I want you to stay, I want to stay with you, why would I ever—why would—no!”

Viktor’s eyes go wide, and slowly, the quiet despair in his face melts away into cautious hope and disbelief. “You… mean you don’t care that I’m useless now?”

Yuuri makes a frustrated little noise and presses their foreheads together, noses brushing. “Stop talking about yourself like that,” he insists, staring into the sky blue of Viktor’s beautiful eyes. “Don’t call yourself useless, you’re not broken, you’re not useless, you’re just _hurt_ —and even if you were useless, I didn’t fall in love with your utility, I fell in love with _you!_ I love _you,_ Vitya, not your—not your ability as a field agent or anything else!”

He’s crying again, tears leaking down his cheeks and dripping onto Viktor’s startled face, and then Viktor kisses him, tender and sweet and soft. It’s a long, slow kiss, and Viktor’s fingers thread through his hair as he gently nips at Yuuri’s lips and presses him closer closer closer, kissing him again, and again, and again.

“I love you, too, Yuurasha,” Viktor finally breathes, his breaths a little ragged. “I love you. I love you and I don’t deserve you but god, I love you, you’re beautiful, and I _love you.”_

“I love you too,” Yuuri sniffles, squeezing his eyes shut. “I love you so much.”

“Oh, hush, hush, luchik, don’t cry,” Viktor coos, kissing away the tears. “Shh. I shouldn’t have presumed. I’m sorry, hush, hush. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

Yuuri sniffles again. “We are?”

“I think so,” Viktor murmurs. “If you think so, too, then yes, we are.”

Yuuri hugs him tighter, takes a shaky breath, and then lets go. “Okay. I—you didn’t take your pain meds yet, did you?”

Viktor shakes his head.

“You need to take them,” Yuuri chastises, kissing him again, just a soft touch of his lips to Viktor’s. Viktor whines softly when he pulls away too fast, and it makes him smile just a little. “It’ll help. Celestino said they’ll probably be able to get us tomorrow morning, and in the meantime, the area around this safehouse is secure. It’s just us.”

Viktor nods, watching as Yuuri sits on the edge of the bed again and shakes two pills from the bottle into his hand. He wriggles into sitting up, takes the water bottle from the nightstand, and smiles in thanks when Yuuri passes him the medicine, knocking it back and taking a long drink of water. Yuuri’s eyes trace the line of his throat as he swallows.

Viktor breathes out and sets the bottle aside again. “Just us,” he repeats, sighing as he looks up at Yuuri. “No ships.”

(The ship exploded and sank two nights ago, lighting the sea up with a brilliant, fiery gold as Yuuri rowed them to shore. Viktor was hardly conscious, groaning with pain in the bottom of the lifeboat, and Yuuri was so, so afraid—)

“No,” Yuuri agrees. “No ships.”

Viktor catches his hand and brings it to his lips. “Good.”

* * *

 

 _20180420225318_ _  
_ _[Present day.]_

In the chaos, Yuuri dives to the floor, wincing as broken glass digs into his bare skin. He takes cover behind a table as Vinson’s bodyguards open fire on Canute and her hired muscle, and screams from other revelers fill the air. Heart pounding, he peers around the edge of the table and sees chaos—there’s a rapidly developing no-man’s-land in the center of the room, where bodies lie slumped as bullets whiz overhead. Canute and Vinson crouch behind overturned tables of their own, while the other guests form bottlenecks at the doors, trying desperately to escape.

“Chris,” Yuuri hisses. “Where are you?”

“I’m fine, mon ami,” comes the answer. “I’m blocked in by the northeast door. You?”

“I’m by the south windows.” Yuuri glances over his shoulder again, noting that the other woman who was hiding over here a moment ago has made her break for the southwest door, leaving him alone. “Vitya. Vitya, what’s going on?”

There is no answer. Yuuri’s heart climbs into his throat.

“I have to get to him,” he tells Chris. “I have to get out of here now, I—”

“You don’t have to justify it to me,” Chris cuts him off. “Go! I’ll catch up when I’m able.”

Yuuri doesn’t bother answering, just crawling to the shattered glass. The wood panelling smells of acrid smoke from the explosions, but it’s clear that they were engineered to shock, not to kill, and after a moment’s observation he figures nobody in the shootout is watching the shy informant in the back of the room. He makes a gamble then, swinging himself up onto the windowsill, and before anyone can notice him, he grabs the decorative trellis and swings out into the night.

“Vitya,” he begs, desperate, as he clambers down into the gardens as fast as he can. “Vitya, are you there?”

Instead of his fiancé’s voice, he hears a flash of static and another burst of Russian. Viktor is yelling, too, desperate and a little distant, and then—

_Bang!_

Viktor screams.

Horror and shock punch Yuuri in the gut so hard that he almost trips over his own feet as he picks up his pace, running to the back of the mansion and pulling the pistol from its hidden holster on his thigh, under his skirt.

“Hold on, Vitya,” he whispers, though he doesn’t know Viktor can hear him. “Hold on, I’m coming. Just hold on a little longer…”

“ _You!”_

Edmund Vinson roars in rage, grabbing Yuuri’s wrist and nearly yanking his arm out of his socket as he emerges from the shadows. Yuuri cries out in shock and pain, trying to wrench out of his grasp, but gets shoved against the mansion wall hard enough that his head hits the brick, and his vision goes red for an instant.

“You innocent little _bastard,_ ” Vinson hisses, hand reaching for his throat. “Canute already bought you, didn’t she? You were with her the whole time, you little s—”

Yuuri jerks his knee up and rams it between Vinson’s legs, uses the momentum of the hand still clenching his wrist coming down, and slams the man into the wall himself. Vinson collapses, wheezing, the breath knocked out of him, and Yuuri takes off running again. He has to get to Vitya, he has to get to Vitya, he has to get to Vitya, oh, god, please…

When he bursts through the back gate of the gardens, he sees several things. There’s the vans Viktor mentioned pulling up, empty by the looks of them. There’s the other gate, open, where most of the hired thugs must have gotten into the mansion.

And then there are three men standing over a fourth, lying on the ground. He _knows_ that fourth man, would know anywhere, and rage and horror and denial and _fear_ all rise up like a tidal wave.

He walks toward them, raises his pistol carefully, takes aim at one, and fires.

The recoil thrums through his arm, and the first man crumples to the ground. The other two turn, one of them raising a gun to point at Yuuri, and Yuuri fires again.

Two down.

The third man grabs for his fallen companion’s revolver, but in the time it takes him to lunge down and take aim, Yuuri has already fired on him, as well. He’s here on business, and they might have come from the same organization as Viktor Nikiforov, but they clearly are no match for his former nemesis.

And then the cold, calculating mindset he slips into when he needs it falls away, and his knees almost give out as he lowers the pistol and runs forward, his damn party shoes slipping in the gravel. “Vitya!” he gasps, falling to his knees, uncaring that they sting from the stones. “Vitya, oh, god—”

He cradles his fiancé in his arms, notes with growing horror the angry red gash across his temple, and checks for a pulse. It’s there, strong and steady, though he realizes—Viktor’s leg, his bad leg, is bleeding. That must have been the gunshot, he thinks, moving his attention there as he hikes up Viktor’s pant leg and tears a strip from the dress—it’s already ruined by blood and dust anyway—to staunch the bleeding. It looks like a graze, not a full impact, which is a relief; it’s the head wound that has him worried.

“Vitya,” he murmurs again, tying off the cloth and cradling Viktor against his chest again. “Darling. Please. Please, can you hear me?”

Viktor moans softly in his arms, eyelashes fluttering. “I… Yuurasha?”

Yuuri breathes a deep sigh of relief that turns into breathless, heady laughter as he leans down and kisses the tip of his nose. “Yeah. Hey. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Viktor takes a shaky breath. Another. “Ah…”

“Take it easy,” Yuuri advises. “When Chris gets here, we’ll just—we’ll go home, okay? Just a few minutes. Is anything blurry? Do you know where we are?”

“Yeah,” Viktor mumbles. “I don’t—I don’t think I have a concussion. I… god. I just…” He takes another deep breath and blows it out, distressed, and Yuuri nuzzles his nose very gently, not wanting to hurt him but needing to show him affection. “You killed them?”

Yuuri nods.

Viktor curls into him and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “They said there’s a huge bounty on my head, from the higher-ups. Wanted to take me in, but first they wanted to p-punish me. For ruining the organization. It hurt them, they said, so they wanted to make _me_ suffer, they said, they said it was my turn now…”

“They can go to hell,” Yuuri says coldly. “That place was a shithole, they hurt you so badly, and these men have no place trying to—trying to _punish_ you just for getting out!”

Viktor presses close to him a moment longer. When he finally speaks, his voice is small—just a quiet, “Yeah.”

Yuuri rubs his back and makes a soft noise of distress when he realizes the head wound has started bleeding again; he tears more of his dress, and Viktor whines.

“What are you doing?”

Yuuri looks at him incredulously. “You’re _bleeding!”_

“It’s just a head wound!” Viktor protests. “They always bleed a lot. You’re ruining—Yuuri, you looked so beautiful in that…”

Yuuri wraps the cloth around his head and rolls his eyes. “I’ll be just as beautiful with a shorter skirt. Or without a skirt, as far as you’re concerned.”

Viktor huffs out a laugh at that, taking Yuuri’s hand and pressing it to his cheek. “You’re right,” he smiles, but then his eyes focus on something over Yuuri’s shoulder and he cries out. “Yuuri, duck—”

* * *

 

20171130184536  
_[Six months ago.]_

“I’m _cold,_ ” Yuuri complains, pulling the blanket back up. “Stop it.”

“It’s morning!” Viktor laughs brightly and tugs it down again. Yuuri hisses as cold air rushes in against his bare skin, glaring up at his blurry boyf— _fiancé_ as he curls into a tiny ball. “It’s time to get up! I’ve been awake for an hour already, I missed you!”

Yuuri grabs the blanket, yanks it back over himself, and bats at Viktor’s questing hands. “No! I’m cold!”

“But Yuuuuri,” Viktor pouts. “You’ll be warm if you get up and come hug me!”

Yuuri pulls the blanket over his head. “Get me some _clothes_ at least! You’re the one that threw all mine… wherever you tossed them last night. I’m _cold!_ I’m not getting up until you fix it!”

Viktor laughs again, but his footsteps recede from the bedside. Yuuri peeps over the edge of the blanket and squints at him suspiciously, watching as he digs through the dresser drawers and pulls out some boxers, sweatpants, and a hoodie, and tightens his grip on the blanket as Viktor approaches again.

Viktor delicately lifts a corner of the blanket, stuffs the clothes under it, and then kisses Yuuri’s forehead. “There you go, darling! Now you have no excuse not to get up and come cuddle with me.”

“We could just cuddle in bed,” Yuuri mutters, but he pulls on the boxers under the blanket, then wriggles around to get the hoodie and sweatpants on too.

Viktor catches his hand as he gets up, kisses the new ring that’s sitting on his finger, and Yuuri pauses, his eyes going wide and round and soft as he thinks about last night, thinks about Viktor proposing to him on his birthday, thinks about…

Viktor kisses his forehead again. “I’ll put some tea on for you. I already made breakfast, and it’s getting cold, so hurry up!”

He leaves the room before Yuuri can pull him back for a proper hug, so he just sighs and hauls himself to the bathroom. After a moment he decides that a hot shower would be in order, both because he’s cold and because he feels a little gross and sticky from dried sweat, and also maybe because hot water might wake him up a bit more.

Eventually, he makes his way to the living room and flops directly into Viktor’s lap. Viktor lets out a quiet _oof,_ hugs him, and presses a playfully loud, smacking kiss to his cheek. “Good morning, darling!”

“Why am I awake,” Yuuri grouses. “We have today off. We have tomorrow off. I don’t need to be awake before noon.”

“Because I’m _lonely!”_ Viktor protests, running his fingers through Yuuri’s hair and laughing. “Besides, if you get up earlier, there’s more time in the day to do things.”

Yuuri huffs even as he nuzzles Viktor’s temple and wraps his arms around his neck, sinking cozily into his arms. Viktor is warm and gives good, soft hugs. “That’s no argument. Same for if you stay up later.”

“There’s more sunlight this way,” Viktor offers, turning his head to nose at Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri sighs and lets his head fall to the side, and Viktor’s lips curve into a smile against his skin. “And I get to look at you…” He kisses the pulse in his neck, lingering. “…in the morning glow…” This time, he nuzzles a kiss into Yuuri’s throat. “…and have it remind me…” His lips find Yuuri’s collarbone. “…just how beautiful you are.”

Yuuri scrunches his fingers through Viktor’s hair, eyes closed in bliss. “Mm, Vitya…”

Viktor kisses his throat again with all the tenderness of a prayer. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he murmurs, voice low and breathy. “I can’t wait.”

Yuuri opens his eyes to look down at him, chest tight with love and affection. “I can’t wait to marry _you,_ ” he sighs, smushing a kiss to Viktor’s forehead. “How am I going to top this for your birthday…”

Viktor’s laugh rings out, merry and bright. “You can’t!”

Yuuri pokes the tip of his nose. “Cocky.”

Viktor tips his head up and catches Yuuri’s fingertip between his lips, nips at it playfully, and then grins. “You’re not getting me a better present than you, agreeing to marry me, luchik. It’s just not possible.”

Breath catching in his throat for just a moment, Yuuri sighs contentedly and kisses him. “Sap.”

Viktor laughs, pulls him into another kiss, and smiles against his mouth. “Would you have me any other way?”

Yuuri strokes his hair, shifting to sink down to the cushions between his legs rather than sitting in his lap, and leans into his chest. Viktor gives him a tight squeeze and rocks him back and forth, crooning sweet nothings into his hair, and Yuuri kisses his collarbone. He’s beautiful, even just sitting in stained pajamas and an old, thin T-shirt that hangs weirdly from his broad shoulders.

Yuuri considers him for a moment, from his breathtaking blue eyes to the endearingly messy fall of his silvery hair, the curve of his soft lips to the relaxed set of his shoulders and the way every line of his body says _I trust you, I love you_.

“I’d always have you,” he finally says, laying his head into his fiancé’s shoulder. He’s still not over the way Viktor proposed to him last night, after a beautiful birthday dinner and a night out on the town, down on one knee despite his bad leg, ring offered in front of the riverwalk, city lights shining on the water. “But you’re right, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Viktor preens.

“Your tea is in the kitchen,” he says after a moment, pressing a little kiss to Yuuri’s hairline. “We can go eat now if you’d like, darling.”

“Mm,” Yuuri sighs, squeezing him tighter. He loves this man so much, loves everything about him, loves him so much his chest almost hurts. “We can go in a moment. I just wanna sit like this a little longer…”

Viktor cradles him close and kisses his hair. “Stay as long as you want, my love. I’ll never get tired of holding you.”

Yuuri kisses his neck. “Love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Viktor coos, and Yuuri smiles, content.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a few quiet heartbeats drift past, “for taking care of me, last week… I don’t think I ever said it, but. Thanks.”

Last week was rough. Last week was someone finding Yuuri’s sister and trying to blackmail him into giving up Celestino’s plans and secrets. Last week was Yuuri having at least twelve different breakdowns until Viktor, Phichit, and Sara gently pushed him aside and, with fierce, steely resolve, took care of it for him. Last week was _rough._

Viktor hums thoughtfully, strokes Yuuri’s cheek, and guides his head up, pins him with an intent look. “You’ve taken care of me lots of times. Of course I’d do the same for you. So, you’re welcome,” and he pauses to kiss him, his lips soft and his touch sweet, “and I would gladly do all of it again if you need.”

Yuuri pulls him into another kiss and presses him close again, needing to feel every line of their bodies flush against each other, the warmth of Viktor’s body seeping into his clothes as he kisses him again (and again, and again, just for good measure).

Running his fingers through Viktor’s hair, he withdraws just enough to kiss his cheeks and then smiles, fondness surging through his chest as Viktor opens his eyes to look down at him, breathless and happy. “You’re pretty.”

“ _You’re_ pretty,” Viktor argues, grinning.

“You’re contrary,” Yuuri pouts, though he doesn’t bother swallowing his giggle as he stretches, yawning. “I’m sore. Your fault.”

Viktor smushes a playful kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Well, _I’m_ sore, and it’s _your_ fault.”

“It was my birthday,” Yuuri huffs. “I am blameless.”

Viktor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is that the rule now, hmm? Anything that happens on your birthday, you’re automatically blameless for?”

Yuuri narrows his eyes suspiciously and puffs out his cheeks. “I would say yes, but you have a month to think of ways you could twist that to your advantage, and I don’t think I want to enable that.”

Viktor laughs at that, nuzzles his cheek, and pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, dearest, I can be conniving whether I have your permission or not. Shall we get breakfast now?”

“Mmm, yeah,” Yuuri sighs, rolling his shoulders as he clambers to his feet. “How’s your knee feeling? Not hurting, is it?”

“It’s fine,” Viktor promises, shooting him a sunny smile. “That’s not what’s sore. You were very careful with me, don’t worry!”

Relieved, Yuuri huffs out a laugh and snags him around the waist as they walk to the kitchen. Viktor immediately leans his cheek against his temple, arm around his shoulders, and hums; Yuuri gives him an affectionate squeeze. “Yeah, yeah, glad to hear it.”

Viktor kisses his hair once, twice, thrice.

He gets the plates out while Viktor pours their tea, both of them moving around each other in tandem, just like clockwork. It’s not until they’re settling down at the kitchen table, hand in hand as they start to eat, that Yuuri realizes they’re going to be _married,_ and this is going to be his life every single day, especially after he retires from field work, and…

His heart is full enough that it’s fit to burst. If this is what the future holds…

“It’s funny,” he muses, spreading jam on his toast (it’s a little hard, doing it with only one hand, but he refuses to let go of Viktor’s hand, so he has to make do). “Two years ago, I never thought we’d end up engaged, but…”

“Two years ago, we _were_ engaged,” Viktor snorts. Yuuri looks at him, confused, and he cracks a grin. “Engaged in combat!”

Yuuri can’t believe he is marrying this man.

“You’re ridiculous,” he sighs, and Viktor just laughs.

“You know you love me for it,” he says, winking, and the worst (best) part of it is that he’s right.

* * *

 

 _20180420292834_ _  
_ _[Present day.]_

Yuuri drops.

The kick that would’ve landed squarely at the center of his temple grazes the side of his head instead, and gravel digs into his bare legs as he goes sprawling over Viktor, who lets out a choked yelp of pain. The pistol goes spinning out of reach.

“You _bastard,_ ” Vinson bellows behind him. Yuuri rolls over as fast as he can, dodging a second kick and gasping for breath, his vision swimming. “How long since Canute bought you? _How long?_ You’re coming out here on _my property_ to get fucked by one of her operatives, are you, _Jiro?”_

He advances on Viktor, a twisted piece of metal from the ruined gates in his hand, and protective rage propels Yuuri into throwing himself forward with a yell. This man will _not_ touch his Vitya!

He rams his shoulder into Vinson’s stomach, knocking the breath from him again, but Vinson isn’t as surprised as he was the first time, and he grabs Yuuri’s arm and twists viciously. Yuuri cries out but lets himself roll with the motion, swinging down and to the side, and swipes a kick at Vinson’s legs.

Vinson goes down hard, but he doesn’t let go of Yuuri, yanking him down with him, and then they’re rolling across the gravel, kicking and flailing as each tries to pin the other down. Vinson drives his knee into Yuuri’s stomach and Yuuri gasps, tears springing to his eyes as he bears down.

“You played the helpless minx,” he growls, “just to get into my good graces, didn’t you? _Didn’t you?_ And all that time you were just planning to sneak off and get away scot-free, weren’t you!”

Yuuri doesn’t bother answering, struggling against his weight. He’s strong, but Vinson is heavy, and the angle has him at a disadvantage, and the hands pinning his wrists are tight.

“You’ll _regret_ betraying me by the time I’m done with you,” Vinson threatens. Yuuri struggles to breathe, waiting for his moment—to punish him, Vinson will have to let go of his wrists—and there it is. Vinson rears back to slap him hard across the face, and just as the blow connects, Yuuri punches him in the jaw.

It’s enough to make him reel back, and Yuuri uses that opportunity to shove him away and leap back to his feet, kicking hard at his head. Vinson doesn’t manage to duck in time, and the sharp heel of his formal lace-ups scrapes harshly against his forehead, drawing blood. Vinson snarls and staggers back, wipes blood from his eyes as Yuuri grabs the piece of metal he dropped, and then—

—he rushes toward Viktor.

_“No!”_

Yuuri throws the metal as hard as he can, and it strikes Vinson’s back with a _thwack._ Vinson stops in his tracks with a yelp of pain, and Yuuri sprints to hit him again and again, not caring that his arms and his legs hurt and that he’s bleeding and that Chris is saying something, _something_ over the dislodged earpiece. This filthy man does not get to touch Vitya! He does _not!_

Viktor is on the ground, crawling away, his injured leg dragging behind him. Yuuri tackles Vinson again, but he doesn’t fall this time, and they grapple over the twisted hunk of metal at their feet. Yuuri grabs for the ugly yellow tie and jerks it over Vinson’s head, forcing his chin up and trying to choke him with it; Vinson grabs his sides hard enough to bruise and tries to crush the breath from his lungs.

Viktor’s voice rings out.

“Luchik, drop!”

Immediately, Yuuri goes limp, drops to the ground, trusting in Viktor, and—

_Bang!_

A shot rings out.

Vinson’s knees buckle. A patch of red starts to seep through his ruined suit, bleeding a dark stain across his white shirt and into the yellow tie, and as if in slow motion, he slumps forward, falling face down in the gravel. Yuuri’s harsh breaths feel unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

He sways, turns around, and sees Viktor sitting up, eyes narrowed, holding the pistol he dropped earlier. His head is still bleeding, but he looks every inch the coldly professional man Yuuri used to call his enemy, and for a moment Yuuri remembers those days, remembers what it was like to run from him, to be on the other side of that gun, to—

Viktor drops the pistol and lets out a breath. “Yuuri, Yuuri, sweetheart, are you alright? Come—come here, oh, god, you’re bleeding…”

Yuuri stumbles to him, falls to his knees and winces as the gravel digs into his already-scraped skin. “You’re one to talk,” he murmurs, but instead of letting Viktor fuss over his cuts and scrapes and bruises, he just wraps his arms around him and pulls him against his chest, kneeling there in the silence and pressing his face into his hair.

“Oh, Yuurasha,” Viktor breathes, wrapping his arms around him, too. His hands are warm against Yuuri’s bare back. “We’re okay.”

Yuuri lets out a shaky breath and nods into his hair. “Yeah. We’re okay. Yeah.”

Viktor kisses his shoulder. They stay there, just like that as the seconds drag by, and that’s how Chris finds them, tearing out of the mansion with worry written in every line of his face. They don’t let go of each other for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

20180224203956  
_[Two months ago.]_

Viktor tucks another blanket around his shoulders and kisses the top of his head, and Yuuri looks up at him with grateful adoration, still shivering. “Th-thanks.”

“I put water on for tea,” Viktor says, hands cupping his cheeks, and oh, they’re so _warm._ Yuuri leans into his touch with a plaintive sound; Viktor sits down next to him and pulls him against his chest. “Oh, my poor solnyshko, so cold…”

Yuuri burrows into his chest and rearranges the blankets so they’re wrapped around both of them and not between him and Viktor’s warmth. He soaked in a hot shower, but he’s still freezing after today’s mission ended with him swimming in icy water until Sara managed to get to him. They were successful in the end, but he never ever wants to leave the warmth of this apartment again.

Viktor holds him tight and rubs his back. His hands are so warm. Forget the apartment—Yuuri never wants to leave his embrace ever again.

“My poor Yuuri,” he coos again, kissing Yuuri’s forehead. “You should have taken longer in the shower, silly.”

“I _did,_ ” Yuuri huffs. “I was warm, and then I got out and I was cold again.”

Viktor sighs, tucks Yuuri’s head under his chin, and decides, “We’ll go somewhere tropical for our honeymoon. You won’t be cold then.”

Yuuri quirks a smile against his neck. “Tropical? You? You’ll overheat as soon as we get off the plane.”

“Hush,” Viktor tuts. “Let me fuss over my fiancé in peace. If I want to take him somewhere tropical, I will! Besides, the beach safehouse was nice. Or… would have been, in better circumstances.”

Yuuri stills in his arms, curls a little tighter, and bites his lip, hard. The beach safehouse is still hard for him to think about, even now, several months later, and at this moment, he’s a shivering mess and he could have died tonight, drowning in freezing water, and he just—he really doesn’t think he can handle thinking about that.

He doesn’t realize he’s sniffling until Viktor lets out a concerned sound and kisses his hair, pressing him closer. “Yuuri? Oh, luchik, don’t cry, it’s alright. It’s alright. We’re okay, I’m here, I’ve got you…”

“I just—I hate seeing you in pain,” Yuuri manages, pressing close to him, breathing in his scent. He’s warm under the blankets, wearing a simple robe and fuzzy socks of his own, and his embrace is strong and firm. “I, I always think… if I had just… if I’d just been faster…”

Viktor cuts him off with a finger against his lips, tipping his chin up, and Yuuri raises his blurry eyes up to meet Viktor’s soft blue ones.

“Yuurochka,” he murmurs, cradling his cheek. “I hate seeing _you_ in pain, too. None of what happened to me back then is your fault, just like… none of what happened to you tonight was mine.” He swallows hard, as if that was difficult to say, as if he could have stopped the man who snuck up on Yuuri and attacked him, while sitting far away behind the surveillance cameras. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you, too,” Yuuri sniffles, burying his face in his neck for a moment. He lifts his head again quickly, an ache in his chest tugging him forward to kiss his fiancé, and he does. He does, closing his eyes and melting into him, letting Viktor cradle him close like something precious, as their lips connect and Viktor’s fingers caress his cheek, tender and loving and sweet.

Viktor kisses him again, still soft, still sweet, and Yuuri sighs. Viktor’s other hand pulls the blanket back up to his shoulders, tucking it close around him to keep all the cold air out, and suddenly he feels safe and protected and so, so loved, and…

“Don’t cry,” Viktor murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth. “It’s alright, darling. It’s alright.”

Yuuri blinks back tears again (he’s just emotional tonight, and maybe that’s a side-effect of hypothermia, he’s not sure) and smiles tremulously.

“It’s alright,” he agrees, burrowing into Viktor’s chest. “And tropical does sound good.”

* * *

 

 _20180421115629_ _  
_ _[Present day.]_

Yuuri snuggles close to his beloved fiancé, hand resting above his heart, content as the seconds tick by and Viktor’s heart beats under his palm. Viktor scrunches his fingers idly through his hair, gentle and sleepy, and sighs up at the clouds drifting overhead.

“Whenever I retire from fieldwork,” he muses, reaching up to run his fingers along Viktor’s jawline, “we should get a dog.”

Viktor catches his hand, brings it to his lips, and presses three featherlight kisses to his fingers. “Why stop there? That cloud looks like a poodle, and so does that one. I think it means we should get two dogs.”

“All of the clouds look like poodles,” Yuuri contradicts.

Viktor lifts his head, his hair flopping over the bandage near his temple, and levels a flat look at him. A laugh starts to bubble up in Yuuri’s stomach before Viktor even opens his mouth.

“Yuurasha,” he says skeptically. “That one, over there, is shaped like a spatula, and the one right there would have to be a dog with two heads, or maybe a very misshapen left ear. That one is _clearly_ a cat.”

Yuuri starts to giggle and just waits for him to notice one important detail.

He does, after another second of his skeptical stare, and then he lets out a despairing sigh. He also raises a hand to clap it to his forehead out of habit, but Yuuri snatches it out of the air and holds it protectively before he can smack his own wound.

“Of _course_ ,” Viktor laments, squeezing his hand in wordless thanks. “You’re not wearing your glasses.”

Yuuri grins and kisses his knuckles just like Viktor did to him a moment ago. “Astute observation, my dear.”

Viktor sighs again, very dramatically, and lays his head back down on his sweater, folded into a pillow in the grass. Yuuri nuzzles his cheek against his chest and smiles at their interlaced fingers, bumping his knee into Viktor’s uninjured leg. Viktor responds by stroking his thumb over his knuckles and humming to himself; Yuuri can feel the vibration in his chest.

This is good. After how terrified he was last night, hearing Viktor so afraid, hearing Viktor get hurt, they both needed this.

He’s sporting some impressive bruises, on the right side of his face where Vinson kicked and slapped him during their fight, and some smaller ones on his ribs from the grappling. The gravel scratched his legs very messily, but overall, he’s not so bad off. Viktor, too; he has the head wound and the leg one, but neither is too serious (they’re _just_ bad enough to give Yuuri proper grounds to fuss and to have an excuse to carry his fiancé around).

Today, in the sunlight, with only minor injuries and a darling man with an arm around his shoulders, everything is far less horrible. Ciao-Ciao didn’t hold them in the debriefing meeting long, since Chris came in this morning and already turned in his report, and told them to go enjoy the day, and they’ve made the most of that order—a picnic and cloudgazing in the courtyard at HQ.

Yuuri looks at another poodle-shaped cloud and then shifts, looking at Viktor, who is frowning up at the sky, deep in thought. Chest aching from fondness, he kisses his chest to get his attention.

Viktor looks down, an elegant eyebrow arched, and Yuuri smiles at him. “Hey. What’s on your mind?”

“What’s on yours?” Viktor returns, squeezing his hand.

“I asked first,” Yuuri points out, smile turning wry.

Viktor smiles back, then pulls their joined hands up to kiss Yuuri’s palm. “So?”

“Fine, because I’m not in the mood to argue with you,” Yuuri sighs, stroking his thumb over Viktor’s lower lip. His fiancé is lovely and silly and makes him laugh, even when he’s wading through murky thoughts of upsetting things, and he loves him so. “I was just thinking about last night, and… how happy I am we’re both here now, and we’re okay. I was really scared…”

“Oh,” Viktor murmurs, voice dropping low. “Yuurasha…”

Yuuri lifts his shoulder and drops it again, a very lazy horizontal shrug. “It is what it is,” he sighs after a moment, as Viktor kisses his fingers again, giving him a gentle squeeze. “I was scared because I could have lost you, and I don’t exactly want that to happen, you know, so… of course I was scared.”

Viktor cranes his neck to lean in and kiss his hair, hugging him close. “I know. But we made it, and we’re alright, luchik.”

“I know,” Yuuri nods against his chest. “I was thinking about that, too. I was scared yesterday, but today is a lot better.”

“Every day with you in it is better than the last,” Viktor teases gently, eyes twinkling. “I realize that you could definitely argue that yesterday was not better than the day before, but my point is still that you make every day better than it could have possibly been otherwise.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri laughs, impossibly charmed. “You are so cheesy, you know that?”

“I’m glad you’re not lactose intolerant, then,” Viktor coos, and kisses his hand again. He presses it to his cheek for a moment, then sighs and admits, “I was scared, too. I didn’t think I’d have to fight them again, and I—it’s been so long since I was in an active situation, and I _froze._ Can you believe that?”

Brows knitting together with concern, Yuuri kisses his chest again and nods quietly. “Yeah. Happens to the best of us.”

Viktor blows out a breath. “I suppose it does.”

Yuuri looks up at him, wanting to hold him closer, wanting to kiss that hint of sadness out of his voice. “Is that what you were thinking about?”

That smile he loves so much returns just like that, brightening Viktor’s face like the sun. “Oh, no, not at all,” he says, and grins beautifully. “Do you still want to know what I was thinking about, darling?”

“Of course,” Yuuri says, that tone of voice making him start to suspect a bad joke, though he’s not sure where it’s going to come from. “What were you thinking about…?”

Viktor lets out a very melodramatic sigh, casts a hand to his forehead for a moment before taking Yuuri’s again, and proclaims, “That entire night I could have been calling him the Lemon Monstrosi _tie,_ but I didn’t think of it until now! It was such a missed opportunity.”

Yuuri stares at him a moment, nonplussed, and then bursts out laughing.

“You are _incorrigible!”_ he giggles, and Viktor looks so pleased with himself that he can’t help but laugh harder. “And, and I think you mean it was a missed opportuni _tie,”_ he adds, when he finally gets himself back under control.

Viktor absolutely lights up. “Yuuri!” he exclaims, delighted, and wriggles down to give him a proper kiss. “I’m rubbing off on you, my love! I’m so proud!”

Yuuri can’t stop giggling long enough to kiss him properly, but he makes a valiant effort. Judging by Viktor’s enthusiasm, he thinks it works well enough.

* * *

 

20190612110413  
_[One year later.]_

“It’s hot,” Viktor complains.

Yuuri gives him a sidelong look and swings their joined hands. “It’s nice today; you just have a ridiculously skewed sense of temperature, Mister-‘I’ll-go-swimming-in-an-outdoor-pool-in-December’.”

“That was _one time,_ and it wasn’t even so cold—”

“You were clinging to me for an _hour_ afterwards—”

“—and I don’t see how that has anything to do with it being too hot today—”

“—because you were supposedly too cold to get your naked ass into the shower—”

“—because it is _not_ my fault that you have a ridiculously high heat tolerance, darling—”

“—and have I ever told you how transparent you are, sometimes, because seriously, that was transparent—”

“Boof!”

Makkachin interrupts them by dashing across the path, tail wagging wildly as she follows the motion of some ducks swimming on the pond they’re walking toward, and Yuuri breaks into helpless laughter as she tugs at the leash in Viktor’s hand. Vicchan, for the third time since leaving the apartment, winds his way between Yuuri’s feet and tries his best to trip him.

“Well, _someone_ has opinions,” Viktor jokes. He squeezes Yuuri’s hand and adds with an easy wink, “She says I’m right.”

“Don’t let her into the pond,” Yuuri warns, shaking his head. “Or else we’ll have to bathe her again at home, and by ‘we’ I mean you, because I, personally, am not ready for a second warzone in two days.”

Viktor offers him a plaintive look as he steps over Vicchan, who seems bewildered by this new development and paws at his shoe. “Yuuri, marriage is an agreement to do everything together, as a team.”

“Yes, and sometimes teamwork means recognizing when you can’t do a task, so you have to leave it to someone better equipped,” Yuuri returns, lightly elbowing his side. “And it’s not an agreement to do _everything_ together!”

Viktor laughs and lets go of his hand to wrap his arm around his waist, tugging him in to press a quick kiss to his temple. “Yes, yes, I know, I know. I was just _trying_ to make a point, dear heart, but as ever, you pierce right through me.”

“That’s either a _very_ far stretch at a pun, or a terrible innuendo, and I don’t know which option is worse,” Yuuri sighs, unable to hide a smile as he leans up to kiss his husband’s cheek. Vicchan, who refuses to be daunted, attempts to tangle his leash around their legs in the meantime.

Eventually, they settle down at the edge of the pond, a little bit away from the walking path, and have a leisurely picnic while the dogs roam nearby. Vicchan flops down in the grass and goes to sleep, while Makkachin sniffs the pond, the trees, and the sandwiches, which she is most certainly not allowed to eat because they contain avocado, and wags her tail and pants at the ducks.

Viktor nudges his side as they eat, pointing. “Look, she’s panting. It _is_ hot.”

“She’s been running around every which-way since we got here,” Yuuri contradicts. “Of course she’d be panting. See, Vicchan is perfectly fine—god, I can’t believe you made us name this poor dog after you—”

“Now, now, solnyshko, you lost that bet fair and square,” Viktor tuts, wagging a finger, “and drunk Yuurasha wanted to name the new puppy after his _faaaavorite person,_ so it’s your fault, technically.”

“I profess my eternal love for you while inebriated and this is the thanks I get,” Yuuri huffs. “You make us go with the name my dumb drunk ass picked.”

Viktor smushes a kiss to his cheek, affectionate and playful. “I love your drunk ass! And your sober ass, to be fair. You have a very nice ass, dear.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says wryly, flicking the brim of his sunhat. “So do you.”

It’s nice, he thinks, after they put everything back in the picnic basket and sit together, gazing out over the pond. It glimmers in the sun and makes him think of the first time he came here with Viktor, years ago, on a rainy day. This isn’t the exact spot where they sat together to feed ducks then—that’s on the other side—but it still feels similar, and it’s nice.

He reaches up and takes the hat off Viktor’s head to run his fingers through his hair, quietly delighted that he’s married to this man, this wonderful man, and gives him a quick kiss. A beautiful, soft smile blossoms across Viktor’s face, and Yuuri kisses him again, just because he can.

“Do you ever think about what a story it is,” he comments, nestling his head into Viktor’s shoulder and watching him try to entice a duck with some lettuce, “that two former enemies in field work ended up in love, and married with dogs?”

“If we were a romance novel,” Viktor says wryly as the duck snaps at the lettuce and narrowly misses his fingers, “I would have expected one of us to get killed off right before our happy ending. They never end stories like ours well.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Don’t say that!”

Viktor laughs and kisses his forehead. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ve already found my happily-ever-after,” he promises, “and I don’t ever intend to let it go.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed this, you might like yoispyzine !! orders close Today i just forgot to post this fic earlier !!!
> 
> if you're reading after orders have closed Thank You for reading anyway ♥ i hope you liked it!!!!


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